


Spoiler

by ideal_girl (trainwreckdress)



Category: DC Comics, Smallville, Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Backstory, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-22
Updated: 2006-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-14 14:45:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/150393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trainwreckdress/pseuds/ideal_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Below the fold, there's a blurry picture of something—no, someone—in flight. The caption tells Whitney it's Superman, but his gut tells him it's Clark Kent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spoiler

It was a Thursday, his third day on the ground, when his staff sergeant pulled him off duty, handed him a set of keys and asked him to run the obstacle course with the clunkiest Humvee on the lot.

It wasn't until after he'd cleared the rise that he saw the line of artillery fire against the horizon and realized, _"This is war."_

They hadn't seen any enemy action, his group nor the one before it. Managed to land a quiet spot, one of the older grunts had told him, all smiles with a box full of porn under his bed. Whitney traded him a couple of candy bars for a bag of crushed Doritos from Turkey, the chips spicier and sweeter than he expected.

That night the sergeant marched him into the tall grasses surrounding the compound, the ones that swayed with the wind and imaginary enemy forces. The clearing wasn't far, a handful of soldiers listening intently to a woman dressed in civilian cammies, her dark hair blowing in her face.

"Agent Cortez," his sergeant called, and the woman turned. "This is PFC Fordman. He's here to assist you."

She smiled, quick and sweet, and Whitney thought of Lana, thought about his first mail call, schedule for three days from now.

"Does he have a first name?" She was looking at him, but speaking to the sergeant.

"It's Whitney, m'am," he found himself saying, couldn't stop, wanted to see that smile again. He winced inwardly when his sergeant tensed up beside him, got himself ready for a tongue-lashing.

But it didn't happen. Whitney did get her smile, along with his sergeant's dismissal, and somehow ended up with the empty slot on a recon team, all because their driver went and got himself shot at on their last rotation.

And after that, it's all a rush of blue sky and brown sand, orders and shouting, and -- god _damn_ it he's so tired he feels like he's dying.

*

They did three missions, rounds of mountainsides thick with the Taliban, slipping in and out of areas that weren't on any of the standard issue maps.

 _"Piece of cake,"_ Roberts had said. Hernandez stuck with, _"By the book."_ Baker didn't say much at all, except the time he'd clapped Whitney on the back after their first mission, told him that he was glad he wasn't _"a spoiler."_

Fourth time out, and the charm was gone, and they took fire in a valley, and they had nearly made it to the rendezvous when a lucky projectile opened up a crater the size of a barn right where the transport used to be, and then something sang above his head, the surrounding grass trembling.

There was an impact, brief moments of confusion laced with long seconds of _nothing,_ hands on his throat, and Baker screaming things like "urgent," and "extraction," and "wounded."

A cut of wind across his face and he pressed his lips into the palm on his cheek, took a great shuddering breath and just

*

The ceiling above his head was familiar, told him that maybe he'd woken up once or twice before, but not long enough to get anybody's attention. But this time a face he didn't recognize at all, blue eyes crowned by a mess of brown hair, a voice he doesn't remember, but can't forget, sings out, _"He's awake, hey, he's awake!"_

Then there was a swarm of nurses, people dressed in white, and a helluva a lot of questions he answered with a nod or a shake of his head. The man hung back as Whitney got poked and prodded, and it wasn't until most of them left that Whitney swallowed the lump in his throat and asked, "My team?"

A pause, and Whitney waited for the worst. "They're all right. You got the worst of it."

Whitney closed his eyes for a moment, felt the tremble of his breath as his chest rose and fell. "Cool." He cracked open an eye, cleared his throat again and looked at the man's uniform, Air Force blue and his hair definitely not regulation. "Who are you?"

"Major" He cut himself off, his fingers going to his lapel, fingering the smooth cloth. "John. John Sheppard," he said. "I-- we pulled you out of the firefight."

"Oh." Whitney followed the movement of John's fingers, realized that he was looking for wings that weren't there. "You a pilot?"

"Might be," John replied, distracted by a blur of movement outside the smudged window. "Find out next week if I still am."

Too much morphine, maybe, but Whitney was drifting, didn't understand that he was slipping under until the man ( _"John. John Sheppard."_ ) was speaking, was telling him, _"I'm glad you're still alive,"_ and then the room was dark.

*

When they finally let him stand up, let him piss on his own, that's when the paperwork started, when a stern looking woman sat him down and said, "You were dead, but now you're not, and I'd like to know what you'd like to do about that." He opened his mouth to ask what she meant by that, but instead, "Do I have any mail?" came out.

*

They gave him a small package, a videotape by the looks of it, one that somehow didn't get melted on the way over. A room with a green couch and a tiny TV and he watched familiar faces tell him unfamiliar things, wondered why he didn't care when he heard Lana's voice in the background, didn't thrill when her face filled the screen, didn't even react when she said, _"I'm sorry."_ Just got up, ejected the tape and tossed it in the trash can near the door, hobbled up the hall to his room and signed on the dotted line.

*

So now Whitney Fordman's dead, and he felt a little bad about that, if only for his mother's sake. But he'd known she was secretly pleased to play the role of the widow, happy by the attention she'd received from the town, knew that him dying in the service of his country would probably fill her heart with pride. It was wrong, and more than slightly disturbing, but this was probably the happiest he could ever make her, so he didn't dwell on it too long.

And Lana? Well. He's sorry, too.

But only a little bit.

*

He spent the next year in villages with unpronounceable names, college kid from abroad here to do good works. Beard and Birkenstocks, and a crash course in Arabic, and he did all right, was able to protect the people who were trying to do good, trying to make ends meet, stood out of the way when the uniforms came in and got rid of those who tried to make ends overlap.

Lily ( _"It's Agent Cortez."_ ) showed up once and a while, gave him a stack of paperwork for one in return, brought him two-month old magazines and CDRs filled with ACC football. After the sun goes down he watches the games on his cranky laptop -- the one he keeps decorated with stickers from Redd Barna and Amnesty International and tries not to think about the feel on grass on his legs.

*

Whitney didn't see the press conference, just heard about the President standing there underneath a banner shouting, "Mission Accomplished!" That night he watched three Marines take out an entire cell, the women and children screaming into the black. There was a shock of sound and then

Nothing.

The next morning he hitched a ride into town with Markus, a Russian expatriate that came over before, during the _other_ war ( _"The real war, my friend."_ ), and just didn't bother to leave. Markus brought him to the edge of civilization, dropped him off, and made him promise _"to try and stay alive, no?"_

*

Three months Whitney traveled by rail car, hitchhiked when he could, walked when he couldn't. In Pakistan, he hooked up with a group of German tourists, kids, really, backpacking and looking for God.

They took him all the way to Islamabad, and he lost them in a spice market.

It was a Thursday, according to the _Asharq Alawsat_ on the newsstands.

*

A combination of ingenuity, luck, and a well placed knife got him fake papers and a stolen credit card. It was enough to get him _elsewhere,_ and really, that's the only place he wanted to be.

*

He gets to Metropolis the Tuesday after some major shit's gone down, able to sneak right in under the radar. Chloe tells him to _"cut the shit, you asshole,"_ when he calls her office hotline from a payphone, and he tells her that he's sorry that he wasn't around to keep Lana from fucking Clark. Chloe stutters into the phone, the sound wet and welcome against his ear. He smiles into the litany of curses that stream out of the headset, tells her to meet him at the deli down on 12th.

She agrees, promises to kill him if he's lying.

*

Chloe doesn't show up. Whitney's a bit put out and lot pissed off, so he walks toward the Daily Planet's offices, turns around the moment he sees the flashing lights, spots the stretcher clattering into an ambulance, glimpses a flash of red out of the corner of his eye.

He spends the night wondering if he did this.

*

The paper the next morning leads with her death. Her picture is right next to one of another young girl, the angry black ink asking "Black Mask Strikes Again?"

Oh. So. Totally not all about him. Good.

Below the fold, there's a blurry picture of somethingno, someonein flight. The caption tells Whitney it's Superman, but his gut tells him it's Clark Kent.

*

After a morning and afternoon in the public library, he's got a fucking ridiculous headache and a stack of print-outs an inch thick. One gullible attendant and a sob story later, he's on the train to Gotham.

There's only one person who might believe him, and Whitney has no idea on how to talk to him without getting his ass kicked.

The sun hits the horizon when they break city limits, and it's only then he realizes his hands are shaking.

*

Gotham's just as bad as anywhere else, maybe worse, so it doesn't take him long to find a guy who knows a guy, get himself set up with what he needs.

The streets gleam under the harsh fluorescents, and he sticks to the shadows, his hair and face covered with crisscrosses of purple and black.

*

It was a Tuesday, three nights of taking down petty thieves and rescuing stupid girls in alleys, that he finally gets noticed.

"I know who you are, you're supposed to be dead!" the flash of yellow and black shouts, rain splashing all around them as Whitney's fist connects with someone else's flesh. "Why are you dressed like her, you're not her, _you're not Spoiler!"_

Whitney ducks, counters the kick, jabs out with his open palm, catches a faceful of knuckles for his troubles. This one's named Robin, Whitney knows, heard the stories, listened to the grapevine, knows he used to run with that girl, the blonde one so close to Chloe.

"I ain't no spoiler," Whitney spits around bloodied teeth, brings his fist back to connect, and his ass meets pavement when reinforcements arrive.

And after that it's all a rush of blue and black, orders and shouting, and mother _fuckers_ \-- he's so tired he feels like he's alive for the first time in ages.

*

He wakes up in a new room filled with old things and tries to speak, but can't. A hand on his chin and he drinks down some cool water, gets more on his shirt than in his mouth, but it's better than nothing.

"Are you Whitney Fordman?" a voice asks and his eyes focus on a shadow pacing the far end of the room.

"Whitney Fordman's dead," Whitney sighs, sinks back down into the pillow. "He died years ago."

"Why are you wearing Spoiler's colors?"

"Had to get your attention." Whitney shifts on the bed, winces. "Someone's gotta know. Someone who can keep a secret."

"What secret?"

Whitney tries to wave his hand, tries to make his words come off lighter than they are, but fails miserably on both counts. "That Superman is Clark Kent."

The shadow stops, a flutter of stilled movement, and a man steps into the light, black hair gleaming. Whitney's pretty damned sure this is the Batman, knows it's Bruce Wayne, all dark eyes and restless hands.

"Why should I be the one to know?"

Whitney takes a deep breath, for the first time not smelling smoke or sand or poverty or regret. "Because you're _you._ " Whitney leaves it at that. "You can keep a secret for as long as it needs to be kept."

The words aren't met with more than a clipped nod, and it's only then that Whitney notices the older man hovering over his bedside.

"Mr. Wayne, I believe our guest needs his rest." The older man doesn't wait for Bruce's response, just turns back to the bed and tidies the sheets and blankets.

Whitney lets the older man fuss over him, and when he's settled, he looks up at Bruce, sees the lines on his forehead and the twist of his fingers. Feels consciousness slipping through his fingers, but he's got something to say, if not for him, for all the people he killed and for all those he didn't.

"Mr. Wayne, I ain't no spoiler."

Another nod. "I know."

**Author's Note:**

> For the [A Very Small(ville) Crisis](http://ethrosdemon.livejournal.com/185066.html) Challenge. So, uh, remember in season two of Smallville, Whitney goes missing for about a month or something and blah blah blah, whatever, just, yeah, he's one of the Marines in John Sheppard's (Stargate: Atlantis) [backstory](http://www.livejournal.com/users/thaliae/86438.html). And Spoiler was this Stephanie chick from the DCU universe who used to date Tim Drake, aka Robin, and she managed to get herself done killed. *waves hands* Whatever.


End file.
